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Time passes by and new fads take over. He knows this and doesn’t despair over it. To hear him tell it, those who attended Bike Week decades ago were rowdy and reckless. They’re older and more genteel these days.

“I don’t want to be cliché about it, but it really was all sex, drugs and rock ¤’n’ roll,” said the 73-year-old Burke — a longtime Daytona Beach resident who fought for beach driving many years ago, among other causes — as he reminisced about the early 1970s. “There was a party every night.”

Main Street is the heart of Bike Week and the Boot Hill Saloon, one of the best-known biker bars on the strip, is a major valve. It has been that way since Burke can remember. He sees the saloon as a museum that freezes the experiences he had 40 years ago.

“It’s the Sistine Chapel for motorcycle riders .¤.¤. if they change anything about it, they’ll ruin it,” he said.

On Thursday, Main Street was bustling by midmorning. Bikini-clad women sold beer. Couples in their 70s took photographs with their smart phones. Guitar rock blared. A bike was parked in front of a bar with a coffin hitched to it.

A block away, a man from Quebec who barely spoke English strolled down the street wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. He said he didn’t own a motorcycle but wanted to see what Bike Week was like. He smiled as he walked past a 5-foot-10 blond woman in her 40s with an outfit that included a denim jacket, a leather top and bare midriff.

Nearby, Bill Watkins of Palm Coast said he makes a point to visit Main Street this time of year. It’s his favorite time to people-watch.

It’s loud and lively but it never feels dangerous to him. He sees nothing but friendly faces. The diversity is what keeps him coming back.

“I keep telling people there’s at least one of everything here,” he said. “All kinds of people come to this.”

Back in the day, things could get a little dangerous. A stained, spotty photo of Burke still dons the wall at the Boot Hill — a place where he once smashed a glass mug upside a bodybuilder’s head. He didn’t want the muscle-bound dude who owed him money to dump beer on him or worse.

“I mean .¤.¤. he was twice as big as me,” he said as he tried to justify using his beer mug as a weapon.

That’s how Burke remembers it. He compared Daytona in the early 1970s to the Wild West.

Today, it’s a milder version of wild. Michael Hayes, of Macon, Ga., was experiencing his first Bike Week on Thursday. In a patch store where rebel flags were boldly on display — not to mention patches with X-rated slogans — all he could talk about was how nice everyone is.

“This is the best event I’ve ever been to,” he said. “And this is the friendliest town I’ve ever been to.”

Some local officials worry about a decline in attendance. The Harley-Davidson-Easy-Rider crowd is getting older. There are more trikes on the road compared with years past. Not everyone thinks the mix of young and old is blending well. Even the bikes themselves are different. The younger crowd is going for torque and sleekness, not muscle and chrome.

“The younger people .¤.¤. they’re not going to keep the party going,” said Ken Peters, who has been cutting hair at the Main Street Barber Shop for almost 20 years. “Once the older generation is gone, it’s over. That will leave nothing by the crotch-rocket generation. Bike Week will go bye-bye.”

Johnny Sanchez, owner of John’s Rock N Ride, a collectibles store, has more faith in the younger crowd. Motorcyclists will always want to share their experiences with other motorcyclists, he said.

Sanchez lives for Bike Week. People he sees once or twice a year are like family to him. They have kept coming back for more than 20 years.

“I get a little hug from them,” he said. “They’re like, ‘Hey, you’re still around.’ Not everyone is still around.”

Sanchez said there might be more Yamahas and Suzukis on the road, but that doesn’t mean the motorcycle community is experiencing a sweeping culture change. Bike Week will survive, he said, because it is interwoven into the habits of everyone who rides free on the open road.

It’s automatic. One week out of the year thousands migrate to Florida.

“It ain’t never going to fade,” Sanchez said. “Once you feel it, ’til the day you die, you’re never getting off that bike.”

<p>DAYTONA BEACH &mdash; Paul Burke will indulge in a discussion of the past, but he doesn't like to get carried away with it. </p><p> Time passes by and new fads take over. He knows this and doesn't despair over it. To hear him tell it, those who attended Bike Week decades ago were rowdy and reckless. They're older and more genteel these days. </p><p> “I don't want to be cliché about it, but it really was all sex, drugs and rock ¤'n' roll,” said the 73-year-old Burke — a longtime Daytona Beach resident who fought for beach driving many years ago, among other causes — as he reminisced about the early 1970s. “There was a party every night.” </p><p> Main Street is the heart of Bike Week and the Boot Hill Saloon, one of the best-known biker bars on the strip, is a major valve. It has been that way since Burke can remember. He sees the saloon as a museum that freezes the experiences he had 40 years ago. </p><p> “It's the Sistine Chapel for motorcycle riders .¤.¤. if they change anything about it, they'll ruin it,” he said. </p><p> On Thursday, Main Street was bustling by midmorning. Bikini-clad women sold beer. Couples in their 70s took photographs with their smart phones. Guitar rock blared. A bike was parked in front of a bar with a coffin hitched to it. </p><p> A block away, a man from Quebec who barely spoke English strolled down the street wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. He said he didn't own a motorcycle but wanted to see what Bike Week was like. He smiled as he walked past a 5-foot-10 blond woman in her 40s with an outfit that included a denim jacket, a leather top and bare midriff. </p><p> Nearby, Bill Watkins of Palm Coast said he makes a point to visit Main Street this time of year. It's his favorite time to people-watch. </p><p> It's loud and lively but it never feels dangerous to him. He sees nothing but friendly faces. The diversity is what keeps him coming back. </p><p> “I keep telling people there's at least one of everything here,” he said. “All kinds of people come to this.” </p><p> Back in the day, things could get a little dangerous. A stained, spotty photo of Burke still dons the wall at the Boot Hill — a place where he once smashed a glass mug upside a bodybuilder's head. He didn't want the muscle-bound dude who owed him money to dump beer on him or worse. </p><p> “I mean .¤.¤. he was twice as big as me,” he said as he tried to justify using his beer mug as a weapon. </p><p> On impact, glass sprayed everywhere and Burke's brawny nemesis hit the floor and rolled underneath the elevated shuffleboard alley. </p><p> That's how Burke remembers it. He compared Daytona in the early 1970s to the Wild West. </p><p> Today, it's a milder version of wild. Michael Hayes, of Macon, Ga., was experiencing his first Bike Week on Thursday. In a patch store where rebel flags were boldly on display — not to mention patches with X-rated slogans — all he could talk about was how nice everyone is. </p><p> “This is the best event I've ever been to,” he said. “And this is the friendliest town I've ever been to.” </p><p> Some local officials worry about a decline in attendance. The Harley-Davidson-Easy-Rider crowd is getting older. There are more trikes on the road compared with years past. Not everyone thinks the mix of young and old is blending well. Even the bikes themselves are different. The younger crowd is going for torque and sleekness, not muscle and chrome. </p><p> “The younger people .¤.¤. they're not going to keep the party going,” said Ken Peters, who has been cutting hair at the Main Street Barber Shop for almost 20 years. “Once the older generation is gone, it's over. That will leave nothing by the crotch-rocket generation. Bike Week will go bye-bye.” </p><p> Johnny Sanchez, owner of John's Rock N Ride, a collectibles store, has more faith in the younger crowd. Motorcyclists will always want to share their experiences with other motorcyclists, he said. </p><p> Sanchez lives for Bike Week. People he sees once or twice a year are like family to him. They have kept coming back for more than 20 years. </p><p> “I get a little hug from them,” he said. “They're like, 'Hey, you're still around.' Not everyone is still around.” </p><p> Sanchez said there might be more Yamahas and Suzukis on the road, but that doesn't mean the motorcycle community is experiencing a sweeping culture change. Bike Week will survive, he said, because it is interwoven into the habits of everyone who rides free on the open road. </p><p> It's automatic. One week out of the year thousands migrate to Florida. </p><p> “It ain't never going to fade,” Sanchez said. “Once you feel it, 'til the day you die, you're never getting off that bike.”</p>